black ice (spoilers for S2E5) -- an RCT C/H story for Aussie
Another lovebelowstairs Battleship entry. Dedicated to bsg_aussiegirl because she's the queen of hearts and flowers and glitter and rainbows.
It was his worst birthday ever. Given the rough and tumble years he'd been in the music halls, that was saying something.
He understood why no one remembered his birthday. So much else, so many truly important things, were going on. Captain Crawley's injury. Daisy and William's wedding and then his death. Lady Mary's engagement. Still, it wouldn't have hurt if someone, anyone, had at least said "Happy birthday, Carson," would it have?
The dowager countess never forgot his birthday. Perhaps the fact that Mrs Crawley was back from France distracted her. His Lordship greeted him every year with a smile and many happy returns of the day, but it had been a very long time since he'd smiled at all. Lady Mary was busy with planning her wedding and new home, Lady Sybil with her nursing. Downstairs was all in a pall, draped in black in spirit if not in fact.
But still, it would have been nice for someone to remember.
The household was locked up and the servants all gone to sleep. He was about to settle down with the dregs of the dinner wine and a lonely toast to himself when he heard noises. With a sigh he put down his glass. Had the dog gotten into the kitchen again?
The noise was indeed coming from the kitchen, but it didn't sound like Isis. He heard metal falling against the floor and a female voice, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was just Mrs Hughes. She had every right to be there, as much as he had. Maybe he should go in, offer to share his wine?
Then he remembered than she hadn't wished him a happy birthday, either.
There was another clatter and he peeked into the kitchen through the hallway window. What the Dickens was going on?
He looked, rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and looked again. Maybe it was his age causing him delusions. There was no other explanation for why he thought he saw Mrs Hughes in the kitchen, an apron around her dress, flour on her face, and was that egg in her hair?
Someone had to stop her before she destroyed the place. There'd be no living with Mrs Patmore in the morning if her domain was in shambles.
He hurried into the kitchen. "Mrs Hughes! What is the meaning of this?"
She turned, flustered, and the cup of milk in her hand arced its contents across counter and floor. "You weren't supposed to see me."
"I gather not. But I have. I assume you have some logical explanation."
She grabbed a towel and began to rub her hands in its confines. "It’s your birthday, Mr Carson."
"I'm aware of that."
"No one wished you a happy birthday today."
"I am aware of that as well."
"I wanted to, over dinner, but I didn't want Mrs Patmore to feel bad she'd not baked you a cake."
Light dawned. "So you thought you'd bake one yourself?"
She nodded. "My mother used to bake. And I do order the supplies for Mrs Patmore, I know what goes in to a cake. Only I haven't baked -- well, I haven't done any cooking aside from making the odd cup of tea or cocoa since I went into service when I was 17. I hadn't realized how difficult it was."
He survey the disaster of a kitchen. "May I tell you a secret?"
"Of course."
"You must promise never, ever to this to anyone. Particularly not to Mrs Patmore."
"Not a word."
He leaned close to her ear, his breath stirring her hair. "I don't like cake."
"You never do! Who doesn't like cake?"
"Apparently, me. Never did care for it."
She looked at the mess she'd made. "Oh." She began to gather the pots and pans and bowls and beaters.
"I do appreciate the effort. If I might make a suggestion?"
"Yes?"
"I'll help you clean up here. Then, perhaps, you'd care to join me in my pantry? I served a very nice wine at dinner tonight, and
there's enough for two glasses."
"We could toast your birthday."
He gathered an armful of spoons and sifters. "And many happy returns of the day."
It was his worst birthday ever. Given the rough and tumble years he'd been in the music halls, that was saying something.
He understood why no one remembered his birthday. So much else, so many truly important things, were going on. Captain Crawley's injury. Daisy and William's wedding and then his death. Lady Mary's engagement. Still, it wouldn't have hurt if someone, anyone, had at least said "Happy birthday, Carson," would it have?
The dowager countess never forgot his birthday. Perhaps the fact that Mrs Crawley was back from France distracted her. His Lordship greeted him every year with a smile and many happy returns of the day, but it had been a very long time since he'd smiled at all. Lady Mary was busy with planning her wedding and new home, Lady Sybil with her nursing. Downstairs was all in a pall, draped in black in spirit if not in fact.
But still, it would have been nice for someone to remember.
The household was locked up and the servants all gone to sleep. He was about to settle down with the dregs of the dinner wine and a lonely toast to himself when he heard noises. With a sigh he put down his glass. Had the dog gotten into the kitchen again?
The noise was indeed coming from the kitchen, but it didn't sound like Isis. He heard metal falling against the floor and a female voice, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was just Mrs Hughes. She had every right to be there, as much as he had. Maybe he should go in, offer to share his wine?
Then he remembered than she hadn't wished him a happy birthday, either.
There was another clatter and he peeked into the kitchen through the hallway window. What the Dickens was going on?
He looked, rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and looked again. Maybe it was his age causing him delusions. There was no other explanation for why he thought he saw Mrs Hughes in the kitchen, an apron around her dress, flour on her face, and was that egg in her hair?
Someone had to stop her before she destroyed the place. There'd be no living with Mrs Patmore in the morning if her domain was in shambles.
He hurried into the kitchen. "Mrs Hughes! What is the meaning of this?"
She turned, flustered, and the cup of milk in her hand arced its contents across counter and floor. "You weren't supposed to see me."
"I gather not. But I have. I assume you have some logical explanation."
She grabbed a towel and began to rub her hands in its confines. "It’s your birthday, Mr Carson."
"I'm aware of that."
"No one wished you a happy birthday today."
"I am aware of that as well."
"I wanted to, over dinner, but I didn't want Mrs Patmore to feel bad she'd not baked you a cake."
Light dawned. "So you thought you'd bake one yourself?"
She nodded. "My mother used to bake. And I do order the supplies for Mrs Patmore, I know what goes in to a cake. Only I haven't baked -- well, I haven't done any cooking aside from making the odd cup of tea or cocoa since I went into service when I was 17. I hadn't realized how difficult it was."
He survey the disaster of a kitchen. "May I tell you a secret?"
"Of course."
"You must promise never, ever to this to anyone. Particularly not to Mrs Patmore."
"Not a word."
He leaned close to her ear, his breath stirring her hair. "I don't like cake."
"You never do! Who doesn't like cake?"
"Apparently, me. Never did care for it."
She looked at the mess she'd made. "Oh." She began to gather the pots and pans and bowls and beaters.
"I do appreciate the effort. If I might make a suggestion?"
"Yes?"
"I'll help you clean up here. Then, perhaps, you'd care to join me in my pantry? I served a very nice wine at dinner tonight, and
there's enough for two glasses."
"We could toast your birthday."
He gathered an armful of spoons and sifters. "And many happy returns of the day."